My Fiancé Postponed Our Marriage License Seventeen Times For His Intern Chapter 11

My Fiancé Postponed Our Marriage License Seventeen Times For His Intern Chapter 11

The apartment wasn’t large, but it was warm.

Callen sat on the couch, both hands wrapped around a cup of tea, his gaze lowered like he didn’t trust himself to look at me.

I sat across from him, taking him in.

Snow clung to the shoulders of his coat, melting slowly into dark patches.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten properly?”

He hesitated. “I have.”

“What did you eat?”

He didn’t answer.

I let out a quiet breath and went into the kitchen.

By the time I came back, I set a plate in front of him.

Grilled cheese. Tomato soup.

The kind of thing I used to make when we didn’t feel like talking.

He froze when I set it in front of him.

For a long moment, he just stared at it.

“Eat,” I said.

He picked up the forks.

The first bite went in.

Then he broke.

Tears fell without warning, dropping into the broth, one after another.
He didn’t stop. Just kept eating like he didn’t even notice.

I said nothing.

Just sat there and watched.

“Liora…” His voice shook. “I’m sorry.”

I didn’t respond.

“I know it doesn’t fix anything.” He wiped at his face, breathing uneven. “But I meant it. I cut her out completely. She’s gone. There’s nothing left between us.”

His eyes lifted, red and unsteady.

“I missed you every day. All I think about is you. Whether you’re eating, sleeping, working. I want to call you, but I don’t. I want to come find you, but I was afraid you’d hate me for it.”

A pause.

“But I couldn’t stay away. Not anymore.”

His voice dropped, rough and raw.

“I can’t live like this without you.”

I held his gaze.

There was too much in it—fear, regret, something that might have been real if it had come sooner.

But it hadn’t.

“I don’t love you anymore.”

Silence settled over the room.

It stayed there a long time.

When he spoke again, his voice was almost unrecognizable.

“…There’s no chance left?”

I didn’t answer.

He searched my face like he was trying to find something that wasn’t there anymore.

In the end, he lowered his head and finished the rest of the noodles.

He set the bowl down, stood up.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For the food.”

Then, after a beat, “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Callen.”

He stopped.

“You don’t need to.”

His back went still.

“I don’t hate you,” I said. “And I don’t blame you.”

“I’ve moved on.”

He stood there for a long time.

Then he turned back to look at me.

“I know,” he said.

A faint smile, thin and fragile.

“But I’ll wait.”

“For how long?”

“Until you look back.”

Another pause.

“If that never happens… then I’ll keep waiting anyway.”

He opened the door and left.

When it closed, I could hear it—faint, restrained, like he was trying to keep it in.

Crying.

I stayed on the couch, staring at the door long after he was gone.